


I feel like prey; I feel like praying

by TheSweetestThing



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Historically Accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-12-13 17:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21001151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: The night is clear, but Mary has no time to read her destiny in the scattered stars.4th July 1553.





	I feel like prey; I feel like praying

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Prey by The Neighbourhood

_"Being secretly informed by those most loyal to her of how near her brother was to his end, [Mary] took counsel for herself as wisely as she could. Therefore to escape as soon as possible from the jaws of her enemies, she set out secretly from Hunsdon [...] She made a difficult and tiresome journey, hurrying at the dead of night to the home of Sir John Huddleston in Cambridgeshire, where she spent the night." _

_\- _ **Robert Wingfield, Vita Mariae Reginae, 1554**

* * *

**4th July 1553**

Disturbed by their haste, an owl takes flight. With haughty grace, it unfolds its white wings and glides above the treetops like an angel in miniature.

Mary takes it as a sign, and spurs her horse on faster.

_He’s dying._

Sweat sticks her collar to the nape of her neck. 

_He's dying, and I'm not there to calm him. _

Her brother, her godson, her king. 

Skeletal branches claw at her face, snagging at a red curl tumbled loose from under her hood. The heavy black veil billows around her set shoulders, thorns raking at the silk, but she barely feels the sting of scratches as her knuckles clench the reins tighter. 

Leaves tremble in her wake as she makes swift progress through the trees and tangled undergrowth. She and a handful of her most trusted friends have rode miles throughout the night, crossing from one county into another at a rapid speed, but no words are ever exchanged. Every sound is increased under the cover of darkness, and what could they possibly say? All know how perilous this journey is, and how much they stand to lose if captured. A country. A crown. A queen.

Mary's comptroller Robert Rochester leads the small party, scouting for any enemies that may lie ahead, and his nephew Edward Waldegrave brings up the rear. Mary herself is in the middle of the pack, with four ladies and gentlemen flanking her. To get to her the enemy must cut through Robert Strelley and his wife Frideswide, always honest and brave. They must overpower Susan Clarencius and Henry Jerningham, her most earnest protectors.

It is the seven of them against all of England, and she can almost feel Dudley's breath on the back of her damp neck, nipping at her heels. 

Henry's sword hilt glints in the moonlight filtering through the trees, and Mary tells herself seven is a sacred number. She was a princess and he a sewer when he first joined her household, and they will be queen and captain when next in London. 

Bursting out of the woods into open air, they canter down a ploughed field of decayed vegetables, carefully planted rows trampled beneath a dozen horse hooves. The far away farmhouses remains silent as their horses thunder across the dry land, kicking up hard clods of dirt. It has not rained for weeks, and there are no clouds in the sky above to suggest an end to the drought. 

The night is clear, but Mary has no time to read her destiny in the scattered stars. Even if she had the leisure, she already knows what they proclaim. 

Three years ago she had ordered Edward's horoscope to be cast, needing to know what lay in his future. All she discovered was death for her little brother, if not that year than soon.

Now she knows it means her victory. 

She plunges into a shallow brook, the stagnant water flecking Mary’s scorching cheeks as her horse scrambles up the other side and out. Her thighs are aching, heels digging into the lathered coat of her stallion, and she cannot slow down, she cannot stop, not now, not yet. Sweat is salty on her upper lip, chest squeezed tight as she drags in a laboured breath. 

It is the fiercest hunt of her life, but this time _she _is the quarry. 

When Mary had last seen her brother, he had been ill. A minor chest infection, John Dudley had said… but as the seasons changed, so did Edward’s health – and the Duke of Northumberland’s plans.

Her connections at court had sent the message only yesterday, but the news that he plans to take her throne had not been entirely surprising.

Had the madman not always hated her, and her closeness to the king?

John Dudley has been the chief counsellor standing between her and her brother, undermining her influence and dripping poison into Edward's tender ear. Foolishly, she had assumed the laws of inheritance would restrict him from making a move against her. He knows he dislikes her, hates her even, and the feeling is mutual – but she thought even he could not deny her right to the throne of England.

He had informed her of the progression of her brother’s illness in clear recognition that in the event of Edward’s death she is the next monarch. He had lured her in with_ lies,_ gifting her the arms she bore during her seventeen years as royal princess and future queen knowing all the while if he has his way she will never use them.

She had been prepared, at a moment’s notice, to travel to London and claim her crown. She should have prepared for something entirely different. Instead of proclaiming her queen, he names her cousin’s child Jane sovereign. 

_And his son Guildford as king, make no doubt about it._

Mary had never put much stock in rumours and gossip as a child, but then her father married his mistress and she learnt every whisper has a little piece of truth hidden within, if one only looked deep enough.

Men like Northumberland constantly overreach their station in life, aspiring to live well beyond their means. It is well known that the courtiers of London have little love for her, and Mary will never underestimate the lengths they will go to to cause her pain. She will go to the capital, and they will condole with her on their loss before imprisoning and killing her.

Mary's heart breaks for her poor brother, bullied by knaves on his deathbed.

She had not been with her mother when she finally passed, nor her father, and for all his faults in religion, Edward is still her babe. It is she who he always turns to for questions or comfort. Even now, he urges her to come to court, to ease his painful passing… 

She lurches over a log, gritting her teeth and forcing her horse to gallop faster. 

Edward's summons will go unanswered. 

She had trusted kings once.

She will not make that mistake again. 

* * *

She clatters into the courtyard of Sawston Hall, and is tossing her reins to the waiting servant before she has even dismounted. Her horse tosses his head triumphantly as she slides off, soaked with sweat and near trembling from exhaustion. 

The mere sight of the manor house with its open doors inviting her in is enough for the ignored aches to flare, demanding attention. Her sore body yearns for a feather bed, and her head is throbbing as Edward, the last of them through the gate, declares them unfollowed and dismounts. 

Her companions arrange themselves quietly around her, murmuring discreetly amongst themselves as Mary strides across the yard. Her empty belly gurgles, but she pushes the thought of food away. How can she spare time to eat, when her throne is at stake? Such trivial matters are of no concern to her. What is more important to her is John Huddleston and his wife, two dark silhouettes in the honeyed glow of their entrance hall sinking down in reverence as she approaches. 

“Lady Mary." They murmur. "It is an honour."

"Lord Huddleston, Lady Huddleston." 

She extends a gloved hand to John, who presses his lips to the leather, and Mary's eyes rove over the genial face before her. There is a complete lack of fear displayed, only solid conviction. His expression is mirrored in his wife, who rises from her curtsey straight backed and proud.

"I am in your debt." She tells them, but both shake their head. 

“We need no reward for supporting the true heir."

"It is our duty and pleasure." Lady Bridget adds.

Mary tugs her riding gloves off with stiff hands. “The time?” 

“Almost two, Your Grace.”

“We will stay for Mass at Lauds and then press onwards.” 

"Of course." John beckons the group inwards, but Robert Rochester hesitates on the threshold. 

"I will take first watch, if it pleases Your Grace." He says, bushy eyebrows pulling together with determination.

His fingers tighten on the sword attached to his hip, his stance solid and unyielding. Mary is sure he will hinder any attack despite his advanced age, his love for her is so fierce, and she is reminded of a previous comptroller, long dead.

John Hussey had been her father's comptroller before becoming her chamberlain. He had been forced to take away the jewels that declared her heir, then joined a rebellion to restore her royal title and been beheaded for his trouble. 

When Mary meets Robert's steady gaze she sees the same strength echoed within. She knows he will lay down his life for her with no hesitation, just like the many before him. 

"It does."

"You can sleep easily." He promises, and Mary does not doubt him. How can she? He has gone to prison on her account, proving his loyalty even before this plot arose.

"I will. Edward, you will swap with him after two hours."

Robert retires to the shadows to prowl the Huddleston boundary line, and the doors are closed. Mary watches the iron key twist in the lock, the scraping sound sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. The key is promptly taken away by a servant, who, Lady Bridget says, has a unfortunate habit of hiding them. 

"I have the stable boys armed with bows." John murmurs as they make their way into the great hall, boots ringing out and echoing on the tiled floor.

They sound like an army, ragged and weary. Little in number, but large in boldness, evident from the way the men's eyes sweep over the environment while discussing tactics, and how the ladies hastily fix her disarrayed skirts and crooked French hood to appear more regal. Pearls are a poor substitute for a crown, but the signet ring on her little finger grants her the ability to issue orders under her own authority. She will send proclamations to every corner of the land and urge the people to form uprisings in her name. Dudley will not be able to avoid hearing her war cry. He will not escape her reach, she only prays she will outrun his.

"Where are your escape routes?" Henry inquires quietly.

Even within the safety of four walls, they whisper and murmur. This night is not made for loud shouts, unless for alarm. The candles flickering in the sconces highlight the determined set of Susan's lips, the concentrated crease of Edward's brow as John explains in detail the many ways to leave Sawston quickly, should it come to that. 

"But we also have plenty of places to hide," Bridget says smiling, "as my son can attest." 

Huddleston has offered his own bedchamber up for use, and Mary treks down the long gallery restless. She won't truly be able to feel safe until she is in her own four poster bed, swaddled between her own sheets with her spaniel curled beside her and an army outside her door. Here, she has only Henry posted as sentry. 

The moon shines through the paned windows and paints them silver as the group disperses. Robert will sleep in the room opposite before switching position with Henry, and Frideswide presses a kiss to her husband's lips and whispers a word of comfort before following Mary into the Lord of Sawston's chamber.

Victuals have been prepared and placed within the handsomely attired room, and Susan and Frideswide cast longing looks at the silver plates as Mary removes her hood and massages her aching head. The hair pins holding her plaits in place dig into her scalp, drilling into her skull incessantly, and she motions for a cup of wine impatiently. Frideswide is quick to oblige, and Mary savours the taste of the fruit on her dry tongue. 

Susan offers to let down her hair, fingers hovering reverently above her auburn strands, but Mary refuses and picks at the offered goods if only to allow her ladies the opportunity to eat. They do not hesitate to consume the simple spread, but Mary nibbles at the bread and beef, chewing slowly on a piece of cheese. 

A fire blazes in the grate to ward off sickly vapours, and she wonders if one still burns in Edward's room. It is the height of summer, stuffy indoors and out, and Mary wants so many things. Her crown, and her birthright. A bath, and - 

"Strawberries." She says into the silence. "When we are back in London, we will have fresh strawberries." 

Her ladies scrub the sweat off her body with a basin of cold water, and it feels like a cleansing. She washes away her guilt and grief, and removes the prickle of exhaustion itching behind her eyes. Drops of water that drip from her lashes are easily wiped away with a towel before she is slipped into her dress again. She dare not wear a nightgown, and her trusty leather boots remain on her weary feet. Any second Robert could call of approaching enemies and they will need to flee. 

She sits atop a crimson coverlet, head resting on the fat goose-feathered pillows watching the fire die. Every bone in her body is sore and aching, but she cannot allow herself the luxury of unconsciousness. Susan and Frideswide drift off instantly beside her, but Mary whiles the minutes away stroking the sheathed dagger attached to her belt. Half hidden between her skirts, the weight of the weapon is comforting, even though she prays she will never need to use it. 

Safe within the walls of Kenninghall, she can simply say the summons to court did not reach her in time. She had split from her household hours ago, sending her servants ahead. If anyone is to ask, she has gone separately to avoid the plague afflicting her physician. It is not a lie. Rowland had felt ill at the news from London. 

_As had we all._

Wax slides down a bronze candelabra, smoke from the extinguished flames irritating Mary's eyes.

_Edward is dying, and Northumberland plots against me._

The insult makes her bristle in the bedchamber, but Mary had learned long ago never to trust a courtier at face value. All lied for their king, _to _their king, and their queen, and even their princess too.

_You’re a monster of nature –_

Mary shakes her head to rid herself of the memory. She is hardly a monster, defending her God given rights. They are the monsters, those who seek to destroy Him and her in turn. How dare they question the right of a woman exalted from birth? She, who had been Princess of Wales in all but name, who had presided over her own court in Ludlow like her male ancestors before her, who had been urged by privy councillors to take the regency for Edward. She had refused graciously, if only because she had not wanted to be near Northumberland any more then she had to be, but now she does not have to hide her hatred.

He has always been an upstart with no morals. Quick to anger and quicker to stab his allies in the back, and she alone had been able to tell. 

Van der Delft had laughed at her when she’d called him unstable three years ago, but the Imperial ambassador could not see how he’d plotted to have Thomas Seymour killed and stepped into his place. He usurped a position of influence to better befriend the king, and now he dared usurpher throne through his son and her cousins child!

Well, Mary is made of sterner stuff than Seymour’s.

If she is to die defending her right, she will be out on the battle field alongside her troops. Mary finds she relishes the thought of donning armour. She will gladly fill Dudley with arrows… she only pities the witless people that follow him, and poor Jane playing pretend.

She knows in her bones she is no queen. Only a sliver of royalty runs in her blue blood, whereas Mary is descended three times over from King Edward III, and every monarch before him. The courtiers may still bleat the lies of bastardy her father forced her to ascribe truth to, but she has more of a right to her throne than he or her mother ever did. 

_I am a Tudor and a Trastamara both, and I will give England an heir no one will question._

Her fingers glide over the planes of her flat stomach, the skin taut beneath the silk.

Her monthly courses still pain her, and her great grandmother had given birth to her youngest aged forty two. Mary is five years younger than that, and sees no reason why she cannot conceive given the chance. She is older than she had hoped to become queen, but it is something, sixteen years ago, she had resigned herself to never happening.

She will take being slightly older over being slighted entirely.

The Imperial ambassadors caution restraint, but honour and birthright demand a response. The natural and divine laws of inheritance compel her to wage war against this foul usurpation, not gracefully submit. 

She has been born and bred to wear a crown upon her fair head, to govern councillors and country. It is inexplicable, unimaginable, to even pose the thought of stepping aside and accepting another sat on her throne. To do so for Edward had been hard enough, for John Dudley and Jane – _never._

The so called queen is no cause for concern, truly. Jane is irrelevant, only a pawn in this game, a tool for a Dudley reign. Mary will be merciful when the crown is in her rightful possession, for the girl has clearly not asked Edward for his throne. He has _given_ it away.

As for Dudley... 

He is a man well versed in warfare, but so is Mary. She has withstood countless plots and conspiracies, been embroiled in the heart of intrigue, and emerged battle scarred but alive. Dudley's father had been executed by Mary's, as is the natural order of England, for the Dudley's are servants, and the Tudors the rulers, and the people will not stand to have it differently.

_It is the countryfolk who love me, _Mary thinks, _not the courtiers._

When she had been denied the title of princess they had threatened her father's throne demanding she be made legitimate again. 

They rose for her once, and will rise again now.

Mary may be a bastard by law, but she has always had supporters. Those who know her right. The sumptuous bed she lies sleepless upon is proof of that. The Huddleston's loyalty, and those like them, is of no question. 

_I will make John a knight, _Mary vows, gazing at the tiny silver hands ticking round and round a clock. _His_ _gallantry deserves no less. _

* * *

In no time at all they are ahorse again, the celestial sounds of Mass ringing in Mary's ears. She carries the feeling of contentment it brings with her, holding it close to her heart. 

She savours the day she can worship openly again, with no fear of punishment. When she is queen, the ancient ritual will be restored to all its rights. Never again will it be condemned as unnatural and unlawful. She will ensure all of England can revel in the pomp and grandeur of the ceremony once more, as they had for hundreds of years before her. Englishmen have long memories, and they yearn for the old days too, when life was simple and peaceful. 

The councillors think it so easy to destroy all Mary and countless others holds dear, but she remembers. Their prosecution is not hard to forget. All the holy men murdered, the innocent monks and nuns left homeless and desecrated, it was all her fault. Her father broke from Rome and tore England asunder, all because Mary was not enough. All because she was a girl, and could never lead an army or command men.

_I will prove him wrong. I will prove them all wrong. _

She will be victorious in battle like her mother, and her mother before her, and her grandfather Henry Tudor who began the dynasty she will preserve. 

Dawn comes early in the summer, yet the sun has barely crept over the horizon when Mary kicks her fresh horse on into a hearty canter.

They have long left Sawston Hall behind, with the promise of Huddleston and his mustered troops to follow as soon as possible. The Earl of Bath will join her before they reach Lady Burgh at Euston Hall, and from there it will take less than a day to reach her own estates. 

At the crest of a hill, she takes a heartbeat to stop and survey the country around her.

_Her _country, soon.

The hedgerows are yellow and balding, and wilting flowers droop in the fierce glare of the sun. Half grown crops rot in fly infested fields and she can smell her own sweat the pomander at her waist can't hide, but Mary inhales the sickly sweet air lovingly.

Edward is dying, and his country too. She cannot mop the sweat from her little brother's brow, but she can make sure England prospers in the autumn. In the aftermath. 

She will come to her throne through the death of a different king, but then, Mary is different too. She is not the little girl she once was, foolishly thinking she would inherit the throne with no issues. Had her ancestor Empress Matilda not made the same mistake? A woman can govern just as wisely as a man if given the opportunity, and now God has finally given her the chance to show the world how a queen can rule. Future generations will look to her as an inspiration, a role model, ushering in a new era for England.

She will pay off old debts, re-endow hospitals, and restore monasteries to their former glory. England will be the epicentre of Christendom again, and her court renowned for its mercy and honesty. She will bring back goodly traditions and old laws, and ensure new policies flourish for her successor. 

She will be Queen Mary, the first of many.

She shivers with excitement roused from a sixteen year death.

_There is no turning back from this._

She finds the thought does not terrify her. Indeed, it does the opposite.

She freely embraces the anger that Dudley's betrayal brings. It sustains her, the righteous fire coursing through her veins spurring her on. She will be fierce, fearsome. 

_Fearless._

Already her blood is hot with a desire to fight. Has she not fought all her life? She is well versed in duelling, and never before has she had such an unworthy opponent. Mary will not demean herself by giving in. She will gladly die the martyr if He wills it, but He will not. He has preserved her against men much worse than Dudley...

_And if God be for us, who can be against us?_

She gathers her reins and kicks her horse on.

On to Kenninghall.

On to victory.

**Author's Note:**

> Mary, according to a Venetian ambassador, "took flight with six attendants, including two of her maids of honour." As no source names them, I've speculated these companions to be some of her closest friends:
> 
> Robert Rochester - Her comptroller since 1551, who was later made Comptroller of the Royal Household. 
> 
> Henry Jerningham - A longtime member of her household, first recorded in 1528. Became Captain of the Guards and Vice Chamberlain upon her accession, and Master of the Horse in 1557.
> 
> Edward Waldegrave - A gentleman of her household, nephew to Robert Rochester, who later became Keeper of the Great Wardrobe.
> 
> Susan Clarencius - Mary's closest female attendant, who became the Mistress of the Robes when Mary became queen. 
> 
> Robert and Frideswide Strelley - Longtime members of Mary's household. Frideswide was the only one of Mary's ladies to not tell her she was pregnant in 1555.  

> 
>   
Sawston Hall was burnt a few days after Mary's visit by the Duke of Northumberland's forces marching to Framlingham. She later granted John Huddleston stone from nearby Cambridge Castle to rebuild it, which he began in 1557. 
> 
> The line about there being good hiding places is a nod to the fact that in Elizabeth I's reign Catholic priest holes were installed. John Huddleston was created a knight shortly after Mary became queen in honour of his service assisting her.  

> 
>   
In March 1549 Thomas Seymour, Duke of Somerset and Lord Protector, was beheaded for treason. Around this time Mary told the Imperial ambassador, Francois van der Delft, that "The Earl of Warwick [John Dudley] is the most unstable man in England".
> 
> In October there was a "rumour on foot that [Mary] is to be set up as regent." The Privy Council later wrote to Mary denying it but there is evidence Thomas Arundel, "a prime instrument in uniting the lords against the Protector", visited her, suggesting the idea was broached.
> 
> In 1550 an Imperial ambassador mentioned Robert Rochester "was quite persuaded the King could not outlast the year; for he and others knew his horoscope to say so." Presumably this included Mary.
> 
> The "you’re a monster of nature" thought/memory comes from the articles sent to Mary in 1536, where it is stated "The Lady Mary has sundry ways, with long continuance, showed herself so obstinate towards the kings majesty, her sovereign lord and father, and so disobedient to his laws, conceived and made upon most just, virtuous and godly grounds, that the wilful disobedience thereof seemeth a monster in nature."


End file.
